Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 27, 1896, Page 2

= Professor’ S Secret. : CHAPTER XII—(Continued.) “We have no objection to hearsay evidence in this instance, your honor,” gaid the lawyer.“I shall ask the priv- flege of cross-examining this witness, however.” “This is granted, of course, Mr. Levy. ‘Go on, doctor.” So the doctor told of the professor's agitation and of the visit to the locked and empty bed room. He did not omit to mention the depressions on the spread and pillow that seemed to have been made by a man lying there, and he told in detail how he examined oth- er rooms in the house. Everybody list- ened intently. When he had finished the ’squire, : “Have the jury any questions?” Delos stood up, looking embarrassed but determined. “I would like to ask’,’ he began ag- vely, “whether you saw any signs ‘gle or violence anywhere?” sir,” responded the doctor so y, that a titter ran among the tors. Delos sat down in confu- “Any others?” asked the magistrate, looking at the jury; “very well, Mr. Levy.” The doctor hitched about in his chair and faced the smart lawyer. CHAPTER XIII, What Betsey Saw. “Your honor,” said Lawyer Levy, “it ds approaching noon, the customary dinner hour, I believe, in this town. My examination of this witness may be at considerable length. In view of that fact, and the absence of Prof. Drummond, who, I am told, may re- turn on a train due in about an hour, { suggest that we take a recess until 1 o'clock.” “There are other witnesses present,” suggested the magistrate. “Yes, and still another absentee— Betsey Hubbard. I will not deny that I do not really expect either of the absentees to appear at this hearing, and will base my motion for a recess solely on the ground that in view of the extraordinary character of the evidence just given, I should like time to prepare my questions. Time will be saved in the long run, your honor.” “It is a remarkable request,” said Squire Taylor. “Adjourned until 1 o’clock. Jurors and witnesses will please be prompt.” Dr. Williams heard this motion and order with keen dismay. The agony of the ordeal itself, he thought could not be greater than that of waiting for it through more than an hour, during which the lawyer would be so arrang- ing his questions that not even a secret surmise of the doctor’s would escape scrutiny. The doctor had had little sleep dur- ing the night for thinking about the inquest. He had considered every pos- sible question and had prepared his answer for it; if he could not give a truthful answer, it was his intention to remain silent and suffer such pun- ishment as the court might impose for contempt. That this in itself would be damaging to the professor he was aware, but he could see no other pos- sible course. He dreaded now the sen- sation that his action would cause, and the probability that the shrewd lawyer would arrange his questions in such an order that when it came to the critical one no answer would be as convincing as one categorically given. He turned with forced cheerfulness to Louise as the people began to crowd toward the door, and was in- stantly struck by the change in her spirit and demeanor. She had not been altogether unaffected by Starkweath- er’s strange death; quick to take alarm, she could as quickly be paci- fied, and her mind dwelt persistently upon the pleasant side of tunings; hence her appaient dismissal of the gruesome topic from her thoughts as soon as the lirst great shock was pass- ed, followed, as it was, too, by mat- ters of lively and real interest—Phil- brick’s adventure, the doctor's propo- gal and the coming of Mrs. Williams to Fairview. Nevertheless, she had not once set foot in the corridor where Starkweather fell since that fatal day, and she had not yet brought herself to sleep alone. She had shuddered so when Amelia suggested that they re- sume her former habit of occupying separate chambers that her cousin withdrew the suggestion without argu- ment. “I want somebody near me,” said Louise. In that desire she summed up a great part of her character. She need- ed companionship, and her attention was so easily taken by people around her that there was no room for mor- bid thoughts or unpleasant reflections, ‘Companionship she had had in abund- ance ever since the day of Starkweat- er’s death, and as that subject was seldom or never mentioned in her pres- ence, and as she never invited it, the ‘first impressions of tragedy and mys- ‘tery had faded away. They were all ‘Betsey Was Sworn. ‘brought back by the scene in Squire Taylor’s court, for which the doctor's kindly forethought had ill prepared her. But it was not only that the winess- -es recalled the shocking features of the ‘tragedy and the apparent’ unfath- -omable mystery that attended it; the spectators themselves, by their side glances at her and their half-suppress- ed remarks, gave her a glimpse of the matter that had not theretofore so much as come to her in the guise of a dream fantasy. As the light began to break, she shut her eyes to it, she would not have it. It was horrible, wicked, impossible! Her father—but this was light that defied all barriers; it was flame that burned its way to the consciousness, and at last, when Delos Hawkins asked his suggestive question, she saw and understood: it all. She knew then that these villa- gers had jammed themselves into the stuffy court room from more than mor- bid curiosity about the death of a man almost unknown to them. They be- lieved that murder had been commit- | ted. It was no comfort that technical- ly no charge had been or could be made as yet; her father was accused of the crime as clearly now as if he had been called to the bar to plead. Amelia instinctively perceived the change stealing over her cousin, and when Delos Hawking asked his ques- tion she felt Louise start and saw her fix her eyes in a stony stare upon the | dogtor. He did not venture, to look her way until the announcement of Mr, Philbrick Leaned Over and Said Something. the recess had been made. They were but a few feet apart, and though the doctor saw at once that she had been greatly affected by what had transpired he was far from guessing just what she felt. He went close to her and said: 2 “Well, they’ve let me off the rack in order to make it worse for me when they begin again, I suppose.” He smiled as he said it, as if to make light of a disagreeable matter. | Louise’s face-remained hard and ex- pressionless. | “J shouldn’t think you’d care,” she responded, and then turned away and slipped her arm through her cousin’s. A look of intense pain crossed Ame- lia’s face. She looked helplessly at the doctor, who seemed stunned. He dimly perceived the dreadful meaning back of Louise’s words. She felt that he was making the case look as badly for her father as the known facts would permit. So imperfectly did she grasp the significance of the facts that not an inkling of the doctor's ef- forts to shield the professor appeared to her. If she could have expressed the feeling that had chilled her heart she would have said: “Why did he tell so much? Why could he not keep silent?” Hvery word he had uttered appeared to her now like a blow aimed directly at her father. Amelia, who under- stood the doctor's attitude, thouh she knew little of what he might have told the court had he chosen to speak free- ly, felt as if she, too, had been stabbed, for she had not dreamed that Louise would so misinterpret the doctor; all too clearly she saw how hopeless was the situation she had created, for neither she nor the doctor himself could explain to Louise how loyal he was to her interests without at the same time setting before her the facts in such a light that she, too, must feel that there was reason to suspect her father. Regret, regret that she knew to be yain, overwhelmed Amelia. She knew | not what to say or what to do. The doctor, too, while he longed to assert | his loyalty, to explain himself and at the same time to comfort Louise, saw the utter hopelessness of any such at- tempt. If his lips were sealed'as to what he knew vo the court, a thousand times more so were they to her. More- over, the time and _ place precluded the possibility of explanation. Temporary relief and escapet from a possible “scene” came through good Parson Whitaker, who pushed through the crowd and suggested that the young ladies go to his house during the recess hour. Amelia promptly ac- cepted the kindly invitation for her- self and Louise, and they started out with the parson. Constable Minot Hawkins had had his eye on them, and even his rather dull understanding was impressed by the fact that something was wrong. “Looks as if she’d cut him,” he re- flected, and, fearful of his official posi- tion, he hustled his way to the door, intercepted Louise and Amelia and presented them with the papers that required their presence at the hearing. “Just to make sure that you’re here in the afternoon,” he said. “You ought to have given them to us last evening,” returned Louise. The constable stared, but made no reply. He tried to speak to the doctor, but the latter waved him impatiently aside. Other villagers, life long friends, fared as badly. The doctor was in no mood for gossip. He was only dimly conscious of what was going on around him. His thoughts weré on the Fair- view tragedy, that grew blacker and blacker every moment. The people by whom he was surrounded were but unimportant details of the picture. He saw them without knowing what they did. He went down to the street, an- swering none who addressed him, and saw Charles Starkweather, Lawyer Levy and Mr. Philbrick go into the hotel together, chatting as if they were old friends, but the sight failed to im- press him as significant. He walked rapidly out of the village to a little used road that wound its way up to a high hill, and spent the entire recess time in tramping back and forth where no man saw him. ‘ When he returned to the court room the crowd reassembled and proceed- ings apparently were waiting for him. The persons most concerned in the af- ; fair were in the places they had oc- cupied before. “I hope, your honor,” stammered the doctor, as he edged his way to the witness chair, “that I am not in con- tempt. I meant to be in time.” “You escape by a narrow mazgin, doctor,” replied Squire Taylor, smiling, as he glanced at the clock. ‘We are all ready, I think, Mr. Levy?” The lawyer stood up. There was a hush all over the room, every person present being acutely anxious to hear his questions and anticipate the re- velations that would surely follow from a rigid cross-examination. He waited a moment—to be more impres- sive, the doctor thought bitterly—and then in a manner that seemed em- barrassed, asked: “Is there anything in the circum stances as you know them, Dr. Will- iams, to preclude the theory of suicide as an explanation of this matter?” The magistrate’s face expressed sur- prise at the question, but before he could interpose a word the doctor had answered in a low but distinct voice: “Nothing, sir.” Lawyer Levy fingered his watch guard reflectively a moment, then nod- ded his head, remarked composedly: | “That is all, your honor,” and sat down. The astonishment in the court room | was too intense at first to find expres- sion in even a rustle. After an in- stant of profound silence, however, there was a murmor of excited com- ! ments that the squire promptly sub- dued by pounding on his table with a gavel. Then he cleared his throat and looked very much perplexed. ' ently, “in the turn the examination has taken. It is hardly proper for me to ask for opinions on this matter, and’ yet, doctor, as you are the only witness available——” A egmmotion just outside the door caused him to stop speaking. A wo- man’s voice was heard saying, “I must get in, I'm wanted there, and Louise | grasping Amelia’s arm, whispered, “Betsey!” The crowd made way, and Betsey Hubbard, flushed and nervous, came forward. The doctor hardly knew whether to fear or sejoice at her com- | ing. His amazement at Lawyer Levy’s course was followed by a hope that the inquest wouid speedily be ended. Now, although Betsey might say much to clear away the mystery, he could not but dread lest her revelation should | condemn the professor utterly. “I heard I was wanted,” panted | Betsey. “You may step down, doctor,” said the squire. | Betsey was sworn. “Now, Mrs.Hubbard,” began the squire, “how long have you been em- ployed by Prof. Drummond?” “What's that got to do with it?” she snapped in reply. “I was hired by | him to take charge of Fairview if you | want to know.” The spectators tittered, and Squire Taylor again had recourse to his gavel. “I must remind you, Mrs. Hubbard,” he said, “that you are in a court now, and your remarks must be wholly con- fined to the questions put to you.” “Well,” she remarked humbly enough, “I was told that I was wanted to tell what I knew about the death of Harry Starkweather. I’m here to do it.” “Who told you?” “Mrs. Appleton. I just got back, and I saw her outside.” “I suggest, your honor,” said Lawyer Levy, “that the witness be asked to tell her story without questions.” “I was about to do so,” responded the squire stiffly. “I was coming down stairs,” said Betsey, promptly, “when I heard a sound as if somebody had fallen. I was at the top of the first flight and stopped there, frightened. I saw Prof. Drummond run in through the dining Bore Her From the Room. room from the piazza. He went into the back hall, as I could tell from his steps. Pretty soon he came back with Mr. Starkweather in his arms. I got out of his way. He spoke to me and told me to stay. I was nervous and started down stairs. I saw him take Mr. Starkweather Mto the little cham- ber near the head of the stairs. Then I ran out of the house, for sudden death always upsets me, and that’s all there is to it.” “Were you certain at the time that Mr. Starkweather was dead?’ asked the squire. “He looked it,” said Betsey. “What did Prof. Drummond do after he had taken Mr. Starkweather into the chamber?” “J don’t know. I heard him calling after I'd got out of the house, but I didn’t look ’round. The squire glanced at Lawyer Levy, who turned to Charles Starkweather and whispered to him. Mr. Philbrick leaned forward and said something. Mr. Starkweather nodded. Then the lawyer stood up. “Mrs. Hubbard,” he said, “as far as you know, were the relations of Prof. Drummond and Mr. Starkweather friendly?” “Decidedly,” she answered.. “I never saw the faintest sign of falling out between them.” “Did you know the deceased well?” “Mr. Starkweather? Pretty well considering. He was always very pleasant. I did his mending for him, and he told me a good deal about him- self.” “Ah! Did he ever tell you anything that led you to think that he was very unhappy?” Betsey turned her fingers together nervously and answered “yes.” “Tell the court about it, Mrs. Hub- “He said,” replied Betsey, after long hesitation, and speaking slowly, “that if it got so he couldn’t bear it, he should put an end to Smself; and he said, said he, that when he did, no- body would ever find out how ’twas done.” A gasp from the front row attracted general attention to Amelia. Her head had fallen forward. Parson Whitaker “I am disappointed,” he said pres- | and the doctor bore her from the room. Louise following. They heard Betsey sobbing hysterically as they passed through the hall outside to an adjoin- ing room, and the voice of Lawyer Levy making some kind of statement. Those who remained in the room heard him declare that his client was entirely satisfied to let the inquiry rest there. { They had no disposition to rake up the unhappy past of the de ceased, and, although circumstances had at first pointed to a possible other outcome, they would be content now to accept the verdict of the jury as the only one that an intelligent community could arrive at. Somewhat confused by the commo- tion and what appeared to be a com- plete change of front on the part of the deceased’s family, the squire brief- ly charged the jury to bring in a ver- dict in accordance with the evidence Ne Re- Don’t sponded the Doctor. Understand You,” adduced. This they did without leay- ing their seats, and, stripped of its bungling verbiage, it meant suicide. By the time Amelia recovered the inquest was over, and the crowd was going down stairs, discussing the un- expected outcome. None, apparently, Weéfe more surprised than the jurymen themselves. “I’m afraid we've missed it some- | how,” whispered Delos Hawkins to his brother, “but what could we do in the face of the squire’s charge, and what the lawyer said? I should just have liked a chance to examine the professor, though!” Perhaps Delos imagined that he would not be abashed a second time. The spectators had not all left the building, and the crowd had not begun to disperse when there was another commotion. Prof. Drummond himself drove down the street in an open buggy, his horse foaming from exer- tion, and pulled up before the entrance to Squire Taylor’s court room. CHAPTER XIV, The Professor at Fairview. Is the inquest over?” asked the pro- fessor of the villagers generally. They pressed close in around his buggy and told him that it was. “Sorry! Sorry!” he exclaimed. “I had hoped to get here in time. What was the verdict?” “Suicide,” answering a dozen voices onca The professor raised his brows. “So!” he said, as if considerably surprised. “Well, I didn’t hear the evidence. I suppose the jury must have been right. Ah! Dr. Williams!’ He raised his voice at this. The doctor, who was just coming down the stairs, turned to announce the professor’s arrival to those back of him, and then pushed out to the buggy. Prof. Drummond leaned far over the wheel and held out his hand. Too distressed to feign a cordiality that he did not feel, the doctor took fact that I think you made a mistake, the extended hand limply, and re- marked: “Your horse and carryall are at the hotel stable. I will bring them around if you like.” Before the professor could reply a loud ery from Louise distracted sim. She had only half-understood the doc- tor when he had turned about on the stairway, and would not believe that her father was present until she saw him. Then she dashed through the crowd and impulsively climbed to the buggy seat and threw her arms around his neck. The doctor turned away his head instinctively. He would have supposed that such a meeting, that must be wholly joyous to Louise at least, would be reward enough to him for the mental agony he had suffered | and for the course he had taken as a | witness. He wondered vaguely why it was that he felt no interest in the | scene whatever. “This is what I wanted to accom- | plish,” he thought, “but where is the ‘ satisfaction that ought to follow?’ “There, there, Lou!” murmured the professor, disengaging her arms; “this display is really too public, my dear.” | “I know, papa,” she sobbed, “but | they were thinking such horrid things about you.” “Were they?’ he returned; “well it’s all over now. Where did you say my rig was, doctor?” “At the hotel stable. Miss Willis is inside, professor.” “Oh, well, ask her to wait. turn in a moment.” He touched the horse with his whip and drove away. The doctor turned to re-enter the building and met Phil- brick in the doorway. “Pleasant ending of a very disagree- able matter, doctor,” remarked Phil- brick. “Very,” said the doctor, trying to pass him. 4 “Doctor,” whispered Philbrick, and he clutched him by the arn, “you played your part magnificently. It was at!” T'll re- “I don’t understand you,” responded the doctor. “No? You don’t need to.” The doctor pushed on, leaving Phil- brick smiling in his curious, contented way, and went to the room where he had left Amelia with the parson. “Prof. Drummond has returned,” he said, “and asked me to wait with you until he gets his rig.” Amelia, who was very pale and mis- erable, looked down. “The professor back! exclaimed the parson. “I am profoundly glad to hear it. His going away was very indis- ereet under the circumstances. Now that he is here and the verdict ren- dered we shall probably hear no more wicked gossip.” The parson was so pleased with the new aspect of the affair that he could ‘not remain still. He folded his hands | behind him and paced up and down the room. Dr. Williams stood beside | Alnelia, and with his back half turned ‘to her. He was trying to understand ‘himself more than trying to fathom ‘the mystery that to him was as dark and incomprehensible as ever. It j troubled him that his heart failed to respond to Louise’s joy. That she had misinterpreted him was painful enough, and perhaps it meant a misun- derstanding that never could be heal- ed; but doubling distressing was it to feel a growing sense of indifference as to whether the love that had impelled him would or would not reawaken to its former life. He actually doubted his own loyalty to her. Presently he was conscious of a gen- tle pressure upon his hand. He looked down without moving. Amelia had put her hand in his and was gazing up at him from the saddest eyes he had ever seen. So great was the depth of sorrow there that for the moment he could think of nothing else, and his own heart warmed in pity for her. “I am sorry,” she whispered, tremu- lously. “I may not have another chance to say so. You were right. I am bitterly sorry.” The doctor glanced at the parson, who had just then gone to a window, out of which he was gazing at nothing, unless it was a vision of his audience next Sunday, and himself in the pul- pit expounding a text with a local al- lusions and lessons drawn from recent | local events. “I don’t quite understand you,” re- turned the dector, closing his hand over Amelia’s in token of his sym- pathy. The tears welled into her eyes. “You are so loyal,” she said, “and | you have suffered so! I shall never} forgive myself for having brought all this about. I was intensely selfish | and thoughtless. Now, not only has no good come of it, but I have caused a great wrong, perhaps more than one great wrong.” “Please think no more of it, Miss Willis, at least, not in that light,” mur- mured the doctor, hastily, “you know I am not one to mince matters when I can speak at all”—he paused to gulp down a lump that rose in his throat— “and I shall not try to disguise the but it was a mistake that under the circumstances is more than excusable. Had I been in your place it seems to me I should have had to do at least | as much.” Amelia hastily withdrew her hand and applied her handkerchief to her | eyes. “The professor is just driving up,” said the parson, turning away from the window. “I must at least shake hands with him,” and he hurried from the room. “He has come for you, Miss Willis,” remarked the doctor, when she re- mained where she sat. She wiped her face nervously and stood up. “TI must go back to Fairview some- time,” she said, gloomily, “and I sup- pose it will be better this way.” Without looking at the doctor she passed him and preceded him down stairs. She was climbing into the earryall when he reached the door. “You'll come along, won’t you doc- tor?’ asked the professor. “No, thank you,” he responded, “I must resume my work.” “Come up to dinner, then?” “ll not promise; perhaps.” “Isn’t your mother still there?” “Yes, but she'll naturally want to go home as soon as you can spare her.” “Oh, certainly, yes. We are greatly obliged to her. I shall have her re- main to dinner if I can persuade her, and we shall look ‘for you, too.” The doctor raised his hat without re- plying, and the carryall departed for Fairview. “I shall take you home,” said the professor, when they had started, ‘and imm€diately return to the village to see about sending back the buggy by which I came from a_ neighboring town. I hear that Betsey returned to- da, < papa,” answered Louise. “She testified—” “Never mind, dear.. I shall hear enough about it from others. Let's dismiss the disagreeable subject as far from our minds as possible.” This was altogether to Louise’s lik- ing, and she began to tell him some- thing about how they had got on with Mrs. Williams in the house. She stop- ped when her father pulled up at a street corner where Charles Stark- weather and PhiJbrick were talking. “Mr. Philbrick,” said the professor. “Ah! Prof. Drummond!” exclaimed Philbrick, wheeling about as if he had not seen the vehicle coming and had not known that the professor was near; he held out his hand with an extrava- gant manifestation of cordiality. “Of course I heard that you had returned.” he continued, ‘for news travels fast in Belmont. I am delighted to see you.” He raised his hat to the young ladies and smiled with the utmost cheerful- ness. “I’m glad to see you, too,” returned the professor. “No ill effects from your unexpected bath, I hope.” “My bath!” repeated Philbrick,blank- ly. Oh! ha, ha! You mean my duck- ing in the Miniski. No, none what- ever. Good effects, on the contrary, for through it I gained the privilege of acquaintance with your charming household.” “That's right. Hope to see you up any time.” In a lower voice the professor asked: He Dropped on His Knees and Ex- amined the Lez. ing at the best, Mr. Starkweather,” said Philbrick nodded, and, passing the reins to Louise, the professor got down, adding, “Present me.” Mr. Starkweather had gone on a few paces, but, as he was waiting for Phil- brick, they quickly overtook him. Philbrick introduced the two men in the ordinary fashion. Neither offered a hand. “This could not be a pleasant meet- ing at the best, Mr. Starweather,” said the professor, gravely, “but I felt that I ought to speak to you. I appreciate 1 your brother's services to me very highly, and while we were not related, ¥ have felt that none could regret his loss more profoundly than I do.” Mr. Starkweather stared at the pro- fessor coldly a moment. Then his face flushed, his lips parted as if he would speak; he glanced at Philbrick and turned his back, resuming his slow pacing toward the hotel. “Poor chap!” muttered Philbr&x; “he’s very much affected; very much indeed!” Prof. Drummond cleared his throat. “Perhaps,’ he said, in great embar- rassment, “I ought not to have spo- ken. I’m afraid it was a mistake.” “[’m not so sure,” responded Phil- brick, reassuringly. “I’ve come to be quite friendly with him—I am with everybody, you know, and perhaps I can fetch him around to a better way of looking at matters.” The professor shook his head and resuthed his place in the carryall. “Come up soon, Mr. Philbrick,” he said as he drove on. On the way to Fairview they over- took Mrs. Appleton and Betsey. Lou- ise was again struck with the resemb- lance between the women and remark- ed on it to Amelia, who was leaning back with her eyes closed. The pro- fessor stopped and had them both get in. They occupied the front seat with him. Mrs. Williams, eager to hear the out- come of the inquest, went down the steps and met the party before they had come to the usual stopping place. She was cognizant of the ugly gossip about the professor, although she had, of course, heard nothing of it directly since her installation at Fairview ,and she was surprised and relieved to see him. They exchanged greetings and all left the cs 1 there. “You won't hurry away, will you?” asked the professor. “I feel that I have had a long vaca- tion,” Mrs. Williams answered. “I've had nothing to do since Mrs. Appleton came.” “I should be doubly obliged if you would stay to dinner. Your son ex- pects it, I think, and will doubtless join us.” After some further protests Mrs. Williams assented, saying that she would get her things ready for re- turning to her home, and the ladies went to the house. Prof. Drummond did not carry out his programme of returning at once to the village. Instead, he drove to the stable and left the horse there still harnessed and hitched to the carryall. Then he entered the house by way of the door facing the ledge, thus coming upon the top story first. He walked naturally down the stairs and along the hall to the flight that led to the main floor. He heard Louise and Mrs. Williams talking in the latter’s room. At the top of the flight he paused a moment. When he saw Amelia issue from the room usually occupied by Louise, but recently by both young ladies, and cross tne corridor to her own room, he went down to the broad hall. After a ‘glance into the corridor where Starkweather had fallen he went into the dining room, crossed it and opened the door to the basement stairs. The droning voices of Betsey and Mrs. Appleton came distinctly up to him, and he closed the door and quietly shot the bolt. He remembered Betsey’s habit of gliding in at unex- pected moments, apparently. Prof. Drummond’s usually ruddy face was distinctly pale, and it was furrowed with grave thought, and, per- haps, anxiety. His hands were not wholly steady as he raised the spread from the table, and he clenched his fists in anger at his trepidation. Then he put his right hand under the table and felt along the top of the leg. His eyes started as if they would bulge completely out of their sockets. He dropped upon his knees and examined the leg. What he sought for was missing! The professor's limbs trembled so that he staggered as he hurried to the broad hall and through the back cor- ridor to the door of his “shop.” It was seyeral seconds before he could ad- just a key to the lock. te succeeded at last, and, having entered, closed the door behind him. Fifteen minutes or more passed ,and when the professor came out he was more composed. He deliberately turn- ed to the dining room, released the bolt of the basement door and then went to the front stairs and calied to his daughter. Louise promptly re- sponded. “Have you had a good deal of com- pany since I went away, Lou?’ he asked with well assumed naturalness. “Oh, yes,” she answered vivaciously, fy “a great deal. Mrs. Williams, of course, € all the time, and then the doctor and Mr. Philbrick came’ most every day. We were never lonely.” “Did no others call?” “No; no one whatever. Shall I tell you how we passed the time, papa?’ “Never mind now. I suppose you're busy helping Mrs. Williams. We'll chat about it later.” Louise ran back upstairs, and the professor went to the dining room, where he stood by his favorite win- dow. He did not see the grand moun- tains beyond the Miniski. He was ab- sorbed in. contemplating the mental vision of a human hand removing a brass switch from a table leg, and try- ing tomake out what face—Phil- brick’s or the doctor’s—accompanied that hand. A light step and a rustle on the stairs attracted him. He looked around and saw Amelia dressed to go out with a small grip in her hand. The professor dashed out into tne hall, quickly and silently shut the front door, turned the key, and then put his back to it and frowned upon his niece. “Where now, Amelia?’ he asked gin a low voice, but sternly. “I am going away, uncle,” she re- sponded. “Stand away, please. You have no right to detain me.” She put out her hand to reach tha door-knob. The professor caught it with his left hand in a fury of passion, closing his right hand over her throat. “You traitress!” he hissed, shaking her violently. “You would betray me, wohld: Sour f nother shake, and he thre from him. ‘hg Amelia staggered back against the bannister 9f the stairs, overcom: >: by terror, partly by physical fo “Go to vour yvoom, Prof. Drummond, saya; as. picered (To Be Continued) or ert IN ra ti } A